


Our Beautiful Fantastic

by pearlydewdrop



Category: Downton Abbey, This Beautiful Fantastic (2016)
Genre: (except maybe Carson but we'll forgive him for that!!!), Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Cooking, Cutesy, Dorks in Love, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Everyone is a sweetheart, F/M, Fairy Tale Style, Friends to Lovers, Gardens & Gardening, Grumpy Carson, Kindred Spirits, Meet-Cute, Single Parent AU, Slow Burn, Song: Plant Life (Owl City), Tom Branson is a Proud Daddy Bear, Tom is a Sweetheart, Whimsy, Writer's Block, Writers, actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2020-11-26 07:37:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearlydewdrop/pseuds/pearlydewdrop
Summary: A story of beautiful new beginnings, fantastic flower gardens and unlikely friendships.This is the story of an eccentric aspiring writer, a charming single father, a kindly librarian and a cantankerous old gardener on their path to finding the family they never knew they wanted.(Tom/Sybil)      (Mr Carson/Mrs Hughes)I'd rather waltz than just walk through the forest,The trees keep the tempo and they sway in time,Quartet of crickets chime in for the chorus,If I were to pluck on your heartstrings, would you strum on mine?~Plant Life, Owl City





	1. Chapter 1

**Our Beautiful Fantastic: Chapter 6**

_..._

_An Unremarkable Cottage_

_London_

_..._

While she had always been partial to order, there was something quite lovely about their chaos.

Rather happily, Sybil could easily spend her whole morning seated by her typewriter, nursing a steaming cup of Yorkshire tea over her latest written creation.

_Warm...peaceful...and comfortable too._

Her stationary would be laid out before her, all in perfect rows with her toast cut in squares so precise a professor of geometry would be envious. Everything would be exactly where it was needed and not a single crumb would ever be seen out of place.

This morning, however, was a different kind of happy...a mad, chaotic, unexpected kind of happy.

The three Bransons had, quite literally, burst into her kitchen.

Siobhan and Niamh barrelled in the door, scurrying out of the rain with muddy zebra striped wellingtons and cheeky lopsided grins. Siobhan's rambunctiousness burst forth tenfold in comparison to their interaction the week before while Niamh's more reserved nature was clearly long forgotten as she toppled in after her sister.

Tom only smiled apologetically at the twins' antics. His eyes lit up, quietly hopeful that a slightly taken aback Sybil would invite him inside.

"I'm sorry. Ahh, is now not a good time?", he asked, offering up a bag of groceries.

Sybil eyed him quizzically, her lips pursed in a conflicted mixture of confusion and amusement. She was completely unsure whether she found the whole situation entirely charming or wildly eccentric...a conundrum that she was more accustomed to inspiring in other people than experiencing herself.

"When you invited me to breakfast, I can't say that I expected you to show up unannounced at my house."

Tom shrugged sheepishly, fumbling with his umbrella to avoid getting even wetter. Sybil felt her blush darkening as she observed his momentary fall from charisma to awkwardness.

"Where would the good be in going anywhere else?", he asked, scratching the back of his neck. "I am a chief...best pancakes around, right girls?"

Niamh nodded with a bright smile. Siobhan eyed her father seriously, as though having given the matter serious consideration (or at least as serious as consideration gets for a five year old!).

"Only when they're chocolate chip pancakes!"

"Well there you go, the answers of my two top notch food critics."

Finding herself fighting a smile in return, Sybil stepped aside. Rather unexpectedly, she felt a gush of warmth surge through her at the sight of Tom's triumphant grin.

"Alright then. Chocolate pancakes, you say?", she bantered softly.

"If that's what the lady wishes", Tom replied with a good natured smirk, earning him an eye roll from Sybil and a round of giggles from Siobhan and Niamh.

"What time do you have to be back with Mr Carson?", Sybil asked, not wanting to cause needless trouble with Tom's employer. Goodness knows, they'd already had enough of that recently.

"Not for another hour and a half."

"Okay then."

Tom beamed, clapping his hands together. "Ar fheabhas!"

The next hour went by in a flurry of giggles, floury noses and two pairs of little buttery fingers that fought over bowels of raw pancake batter.

Sybil watched the trio from her slightly wobbly table, having been jokingly banished by Tom as soon as he had discovered that her cupboards were bursting with pot noodles, tinned peaches and various pickled vegetables.

Despite a series of admittedly frustrating attempts in the kitchen of Downton before she'd gone off to university, Sybil could barely cook anything that didn't belong to the 'instant-just add water' or microwavable variety.

Mrs Patmore, her parents' cook and longtime friend of Mrs Hughes, had even gone as far to say that a teenaged Sybil would have burned water.

Unfortunately, even though almost a decade had gone by...not much had changed in that regard.

"Food prison", Tom teased gently, his eyes round as saucers in genuine amazement as they took in the sight of (what looked to him like) the entirety of the tinned food aisle at Sainsbury's.

The twins, on the other hand, seemed only all too happy to facilitate Sybil's exile from her own kitchen.

Niamh duly distracted her with pleas for stories (having learned that Sybil was an aspiring writer of children's fiction) while Siobhan stood over the frying pan and argued vehemently with Tom over how much syrup was too much syrup.

"Daddy more!"

"Not a chance. There's no way that you're goin' to school with a belly full of chocolate. You'll be as sick as a dog, darlin'. What would your teacher say? Mr Moseley would have my head for it."

"No he won't!"

Niamh's head bobbed between her father and Siobhan, as though watching an Olympic level game of table tennis.

Sybil only smiled, torn between feeling like a slightly out of place intruder on a family moment and letting herself be amused and endeared by the whole interaction.

"They're like this all the time", Niamh confessed with a conspiratorial side eye that illicted a laugh from Sybil.

After all, even though this whole situation was very far from her normal...it was admittedly rather nice.

* * *

_ **A/N: Next up we'll have Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes and perhaps some information about Tom's past. Let me know if you liked this chapter, I know it was short but I want to get back into this story if you guys are still interested.** _

_ **Hope you are all doing well :)** _

_ **Pearlydewdrop xx** _


	2. Chapter 2

**Our Beautiful Fantastic: Chapter 1**

...

_An Unremarkable Street_

_London_

...

With a wide rimmed Joycean style boater, billowing culottes and a pair of pastel coloured ballet flats; Sybil Crawley began locking up her house, stepping out on to the street outside it.

She glanced over her shoulder to the kitchen window of the house belonging to her next door neighbour. As was usual when she looked at the old Georgian house, a curious feeling that someone was watching her through the old fashioned old net curtains suddenly overcame her.

But Sybil quickly shook it off as just being the disapproving eyes of her cantankerous neighbour. Although they had never officially met in person (and not for a lack of trying on Sybil's part who had genuinely tried to make his acquaintance two years ago when she first moved in), she had always had a distinct feeling that the older gentleman who lived beside her didn't like her very much.

(Mr Carson, she believed his name was)

Carefully she checked and doubled checked the security of her locked door, as cautious as cautious could be. She check the door handle...one, twice three times. Good. She checked the small panes of glass just to make sure they were sturdy...one, twice, three times. Good.

Three times, that was the charm.

Sybil hoisted her leather messenger bag up on to her shoulder (it had been a gift from her eldest sister back in the days when she was going to become a journalist rather than a writer ), before taking off down the street to where she caught the number 49 every morning to 'Mrs Hughes Emporium for Borrowing Books'.

She worked there...for the time being anyway while she was working on her new story ideas.

Sybil slipped on a pair of earphones, settling into her seat on the bus. It was the same one she had sat in everyday for the past two years...three rows back and beside the window. Rather then to give her the full view of everything as she passed it by, she chose her own specific seat becuase it made it all the easier to look outside and daydream...

Three was the charm.

Contentedly she listened, not to music as most would expect when spotting a young woman with ear phones in, but to the radio...the Irish radio to be exact.

An Nuacht Anois le Raidió na Gaeltachta.

It was surprisingly soothing to listen to.

The logical part of Sybil knew there wasn't much point in learning Irish. It was, after all, a scarcely used language in everyday life outside of a few small areas along the west coast of Ireland. However, for some reason beyond her she'd always found something rather appealing and beautiful about it, as though it were something Sybil had always been meant to learn.

After about fifteen minutes or so, the bus rolled to a halt across the road from Mrs Hughes's Library. Sybil got up from her seat, smiled her sincere thanks to the bus driver (a man about her own age by the name of William Mason) and made her way, across the street, to where she knew the displeased frown of her employer would be waiting.

She was exactly seven and a half minutes late, just like she always was.

* * *

...

_An Unremarkable Library_

_London_

...

"I'm ever so sorry, Mrs Hughes."

Elsie Hughes sighed deeply, more than accustomed to the tardiness of her young employee.

"If you truly were sorry then you wouldn't be late every day, would you Sybil?", she retorted in response, but there was no malice in her voice. After all, Sybil had been more than proved herself an asset for the business...especially considering how good she was when catering for the younger customers and their parents.

"Just do get a move on, will you."

Sybil flushed slightly, joining the older lady behind the counter and began sorting the children's books. "Of course, Mrs Hughes. I'm sorry."

"A letter came for you by the way, dear."

"Really?"

"Mmmmh".

Mrs Hughes handed Sybil over quite an official looking envelope with a concerned frown. Annoyed as she may be with her behaviour from time to time, they were quite fond of one another. Theirs was a friendship that had already spanned years.

Without any further ado, Sybil tore off the crisp white envelope to reveal the thick parchment of the letter inside...a letter from her landlord apparently.

_Miss Crawley,_

_We regret to inform you that several complaints have been made in relation to the continuity of your tenancy. It has come to our attention that the property's surrounding gardens have not been sufficiently attended to during the course of the last two years. This is a direct breach of your lease agreement._

_If the situation is not rectified by the end of the month, we shall have no choice but to serve you with your notice for eviction._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Carter and Co._

Glancing up at Mrs Hughes, Sybil's face went deathly pale.

She couldn't help but think with dread of the tangled thickets of thorns, the dishevelled flower beds, the wiry lawns and the knotted boughs of the ragged hawthorns with their branches drooping dankly.

What on earth was she going to do!


	3. Chapter 3

**Our Beautiful Fantastic: Chapter 2**

...

_An Unremarkable House_

_London_

...

It is often said that when a gardener begins breathing life into the landscape of his or her own garden, they are giving shape to their Garden of Eden—a vision of their individual slice of heaven.

For Charlie Carson, the garden that he and Alice had spent the earliest years of their marriage designing, reworking and perfecting was, in short, his own small haven.

Whenever the changeable English weather permitted, he made a point of breakfasting out in the air, surrounded by his beloved greenery and blossoms. They were the only living reminders he had of his late wife, their colourful hues acting as tangible proof that the twenty years that they had been together had not been a dream. It was soothing, sitting there amongst the geraniums, fuchsias, heliotropes, chrysanthemums, dahlias, Michaelmas daisies and lumps of lavender. He sipped on his morning tea upon the spongy lawn.

Earl Grey...wonderful.

If only Branson would bloody well hurry up and serve breakfast then Charles Carson's morning would have been perfect! Was some bacon, sausages, eggs and black pudding really too much to ask for!

Carson sighed heavily, frustratedly. To distract himself from the behaviour of his young Irish chief, he found his eyes drawn to the anarchy in the garden (if such a disaster still deserved to be called such a thing) at the other side of his fence.

If there was one thing that annoyed Carson more than Branson's tardiness, it was the heedless young woman with the silly hats who lived next door...Sybil Crawley, he knew her name was.

A large apple tree stood at the "garden's" centre, it's bark was unhealthy looking and teeming with some sort of creeping mildew. The tree bore apples, of a sort, for some even had a pinkish blush, but they were otherwise covered in brown spots...and thus, inedible.

The sight made Carson shudder dramatically at the carelessness of the young lady who occupied the house next to his. Who did she think she was, neglecting the gifts of nature in such an abhorrent and ungrateful way?

Just then a plate of food was settled in front of him; two perfectly crispy slices of bacon, a grilled tomato, a piece of toast and a poached egg. Carson inspected the food critically for a moment before frowning up at the already exasperated younger man, regarding him without even a single word of thanks.

Wordlessly, Carson's large bushy eyebrows came together as he fixed Tom Branson with an unamused frown.

"Well, what's wrong with it?", Tom asked, barely suppressing an eye roll at the antics of the cankerous older man.

As he did several times a day, Tom found himself wondering why he didn't just quite his job working as Old Charlie Carson skivvy but the thought of his two little girls who had only just started school quickly put things in back perspective again.

He sighed deeply, just about managing to reign back in what his mother had always called 'the Branson temper'.

"It's the feckin' pudding, isn't it?", Tom asked flatly.

Despite the curmudgeonly older man's behaviour, Tom truly did give a damn about his employer's welfare...even if it was unlikely that the feeling was mutual.

"For God's sake, Mr Carson. Remember what the doctor said about your diet! I'm not walking out here with Siobhan and Niamh some morning to see you doubled over with a heart attack!"

Carson smiled briefly, and rather uncharacteristically, at the mention of the twins.

He totally ignored Tom's protests about his food choices. After all, having a say on his lifestyle choices hadn't been part of the job description. The deal was that he, Carson, told Tom what he wanted and he expected his wishes to be honoured regardless of the younger man's opinions.

He wordlessly, and rather petulantly, handed Tom back the plate for his breakfast to be rectified.

"How are the girls?", Carson asked, changing the subject. "I hope they're getting on well at school."

Tom couldn't help but smile slightly. Carson's affection for Niamh and Siobhan was one of the very few things that convinced Tom that the older man had a heart at all!

So he took the plate from Carson, opting to seek out black pudding with a reduced fat content the next time he got lumped with doing the grocery shopping on his evening off.

The girls would have fun helping him with that. Kids, after all, seemed to turn even the most mundane of things into an adventure.

"Aye, that they are."

* * *

**A/N: Hiya guys! I hope you are all good today. Thank you all so much for your support on the last chapter. I would really really love to hear what you thought of this one!**

**I hope you all have a great day!**

**Pearlydewdrop xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Our Beautiful Fantastic: Chapter 3**

_..._

_An Unremarkable House_

_London_

_..._

In her opinion, Charlie Carson looked a great deal more smug that he ought to.

Elsie Hughes flushed angrily, folding both of her arms over her chest in disapproval. She glared openly and unabashedly at the heavy eyebrowed gentleman sitting opposite her.

The Scots woman's temper was like TNT, once the sparks started to sizzle there was very little time to duck and cover.

She did her best not dwell upon how there had once been a time when she had considered him a dear friend. However, somewhere along the way—especially since Alice's death—Charlie Carson had become someone Mrs Hughes no longer recognised.

He had become grumpy and cantankerous, totally lacking the warmth and humility that she knew her childhood best friend had fallen in love with him for.

She sighed deeply in frustration.

How could Charlie Carson, the man whom she'd known for decades be so inconsiderate? He may be an impossible man from time to time, but she knew him not to be a cruel or compassionless one. Mrs Hughes was disappointed in him...and she knew Alice would be too if she were still with them.

"That poor girl. You should be ashamed of yourself!", she accused, her Scottish brogue thickening.

While Sybil Crawley was not in anyway related to her by blood, Mrs Hughes still felt a strong urge to defend the interests of the younger woman whom she had been a steadfast friend and defender of since her own days up in Yorkshire.

Despite the years that had gone by, a part of Mrs Hughes still saw Sybil Crawley as the kind and bright eyed child, with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and a penchant for mischief. Even now, she fondly recalled how Sybil would oftentimes sneak down to the kitchens to avoid the daily tirades of her and her sisters' nanny.

Those were the days before Mrs Hughes had left her post as the house keeper of Downton Abbey—the Crawley family's ancestral home. It had been around the same time that Alice had been diagnosed with cancer.

In the years that followed, Mrs Hughes hadn't seen sight nor hide of any member of The Crawley household until Sybil, once again, crossed her path. This time the girl, or rather woman, was looking for a job to support her while she pursued a career that her rather conservative family had deemed quite unsuitable and rather 'unorthodox'.

The Crawleys were a upstanding brood of solicitors, politicians and charity directors. They didn't pursue things so fanciful as art, novel writing or poetry.

Mrs Hughes continued on in Sybil's defence, undeterred by Carson's evident disinterest and indifference."We both know damn well who was behind that blasted solicitor's letter. There'll be no fooling me, Mr Carson. I'll tell you that. "

Unmoved, Carson shrugged nonchalantly. He was a proud and pig-headed man, Mrs Hughes had always known that, but this was another level of self assured stubbornness.

He stared at her unblinkingly, his lips slightly pursed.

"It's not I who should be ashamed, Mrs Hughes. Her garden is a crime against nature", he said decidedly, as though such a statement, delivered with such conviction, was sufficient to render the matter settled. "Silly girl", he mumbled gruffly, almost bitterly to himself.

Mrs Hughes frowned, her voice going quieter but not losing any measure at all of its original steel. In her eyes was a scarcely masked melancholy. "This isn't you, Charlie. We both know that."

Carson glared openly at her. "Do we, Mrs Hughes?", he replied, challenging her. His calm and emotionless voice made her question if she had ever really known him at all. It sounded empty, worn and tired. "Do we really?"

"I know this isn't what Alice would have wanted for you."

"How do you know what she would have wanted for me. You don't even know me...not anymore."

Shaking her head, Mrs Hughes sighed deeply. While she knew that she would not be so easily defeated, Mrs Hughes was more than aware that this was not likely an argument that she would win via a shouting match.

Besides, a part of her did agree with Mr Carson.

There was no point in denying how a distance had grown between them since Alice's death, and while they should have relied on one another—as friends should—for support... instead they had become nothing short of strangers.

"Sadly Charlie, I think that may be true."


	5. Chapter 5

**Our Beautiful Fantastic: Chapter 4**

_..._

_An Unremarkable Cottage_

_London_

_..._

Howling, the storm bashed with reckless abandon against the windows of Sybil's cottage. Rather ferociously, the rabid winds rattled against the glass of the old Georgian style window panes.

Ever the Shakespearean fangirl—Sybil Crawley couldn't help but ponder upon the changes it could be ushering into her life, almost like the changes that happened on to Prospero and Miranda.

She sat quietly at her writing desk, consumed by her first good idea in days. The metal keys of her old Remington clicked comfortingly away beneath her fingers—moving, almost as though in a trance, in perfect tandem with the storm outside.

Smiling absentmindedly to herself, Sybil finally felt as though she were beginning to throw off the heavy yoke of writer's block. Across the slightly worn surface of her heavy oak desk was a haphazard scattering of illustrations. Inked upon creamy parchment were a whole plethora of water coloured creatures in every hue imaginable...bright topaz denizens, newly born into the world from half remembered snatches of her dreams.

Suddenly without delay or forewarning, the window to Sybil's right crashed open—

The powerful gust of wind that entered the room snatched the fruits of her evening's labour from Sybil's writing desk. Quite readily, the wind gave her drawings wings to set out into the night...and even worse, into the garden.

Sybil sat silently—unmovingly—for a few moments, debating whether or not to take the plunge and follow her first great idea in days...weeks even...out into the briary and dirty chaos that was her garden.

The heads of wildflower poked up, rather daringly, from the unkempt and crumbling veranda.

They were accompanied by the thorny faces of briars and nettles that seemed to challenge Sybil to go outside into their world of unordered anarchy...dank tree foliage and caterpillar eaten leaves, all swarming with green fly.

Trying to steel herself, Sybil tugged at the soft downy cuffs of her brown cashmere sweater. Shivering slightly, she pulled them hastily down over her fingers...suddenly feeling rather cold all over.

...cold, but more determined then she had ever been.

In the back of her mind, Sybil heard the screech of a little girl and a haunting myriad of bobbing laurel, tangled blackthorn and the knotted roots of pine trees.

Even years later her throat still hurt when she recalled the lasting hazy flickers of that one particular memory. It made her skin crawl out of disgust—and horror...

Shaking herself for her own silliness and ignoring, rather adamantly, how her head was starting to spin, Sybil put one foot in front of the other. Plastering on a brave face, she followed her first beautiful fantastic idea in days (weeks really) out into the chaos that was her very own worst nightmare...

...

_An Unremarkable House_

_London_

_..._

A pair of faces swam in and out of sight.

She could hear snippets of conversation, not enough to make out the subject of their discussion but enough to fathom that there was two men with her in the room.

Peculiarly, the first concrete thing Sybil noticed was that someone had placed a thermometer in her mouth.

Eyes still closed, Sybil reached up to touch her own forehead, finding it a little warm and sticky underneath her fingers. Beneath her cheek, she could feel the rough and itchy fabric of an old couch that smelled of tobacco and earth...all rather unfamiliar.

Panicking for a moment, Sybil bolted upwards—groaning a little at the unexpected effort it took and the way the sudden movement caused her vision to blur momentarily. Blearily, she shut her eyes for a moment—removing the thermometer from her mouth before trying, once again, to figure out where she was.

Hesitantly finding her bearings, she glanced around the room, pushing back her dark unruly curls.

A pair of eyes looked at her; one impassive, the other relieved.

Discovering that she had been right in surmising that there was others with her, Sybil took in the sight of the two men whom she had originally heard. The first was an older gentleman with a pair of dark rather prominent eyebrows and a disapproving scowl, the other was perhaps five or six years older than herself with dirty blonde hair, a polka dot apron and a concerned frown.

"Sit still, Love. I think you hit your head."

"She's fine, Branson. Go make tea."

"For feck's sake, Mr Carson. You and your tea. She could be concussed. Surely, we should ring someone."

"I'm telling you, she's fine."

For a moment the young man glanced between Sybil and Carson—clearly conflicted.

Sybil smiled slightly, nodding in agreement with what Mr Carson had said in regards to her welfare.

Now that she was awake and sitting up, the world around her had lost most of its funny hazy quality and she truly did feel alright."I do feel alright", she assured him.

The younger man, Branson—his name was, gave Sybil a smile in response, one that seemed so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that an unexpected warmth rushed through her.

"Well, if you're sure."

With a parting half hearted scowl in Mr Carson's direction, Branson headed for the door—shutting it behind him.

Sybil turned her attention back to the older man, finding his frown to be almost penetrative. Carson stared at her, fingers pressed against each other judgementally. He looked at her as though he were observing some foreign being. His eyebrows came together in a thick unamused crease.

In return, Sybil stared back—entirely unsure how else to respond to the outright and blatant resentment of someone she had scarcely ever met before.

"Well if it isn't our very own horticultural terrorist", he said finally. "What is it you do when you're not murdering plants, young lady?"

It was a question Sybil was well used to answering, one that she had answered to a resounding sigh of disappointment during many a family dinner party. Such looks of disapproval had apparently come hand in hand with being the family's resident free spirit. "I work at the library, filing mostly, but I'm a writer really."

Carson scoffed, evidently deeply dissatisfied with such an answer—but not, she would quickly discover, for the reasons that Sybil was used to. "Writing, hmm. That must keep you out of the garden."

Her cheeks darkened and Sybil glanced away from him in embarrassment. "Sorry for the inconvenience", she mumbled under her breath—not quite sure how to respond without revealing what was rather a personal and private fear.

"Sorry?", Carson repeated, rolling his eyes in disbelief. "What about sorry to that unmitigated eco-apocalypse that you have created?". Rather impatiently, he turned away from Sybil, choosing instead to face the door where he was anticipating the entrance of his second least favourite person. "Where's Branson with my tea?"

The door opened once again, rather unceremoniously, with the sound of rattling cutlery.

"Calm down, your Lordship", Tom grumbled sarcastically, trying to juggle his side of the argument and his employer's evening tea at the same time. He dropped the offending tea cup and saucer down next to the older man with a resentful clatter before offering the same to Sybil, minus the frustrated scowl.

"Oh you've suddenly become a real Celtic brave heart now have you?", Carson asked sarcastically.

At this Sybil glanced over at Tom, curious. She knew she had heard similar accents before during the time she spent listening to the Irish radio but hadn't quite placed it until now.

Tom rolled his eyes at Carson, oblivious to Sybil's interest. "Slavery was abolished in 1833, you know?"

Carson scoffed, glancing into his tea as though trying to find something wrong with it. "And this country has been going down the drain ever since..."

Tom sighed deeply once more, evidently fed up for the day. He reached for his jacket that was hanging on the armchair. "Well, I'll be going now unless you want anything else."

Carson glanced up at Tom, a critical eyebrow once again aloft. "If I really did need anything I wouldn't ask you, would I?"

Tom sighed, defeated and nodded civilly to Sybil as a silent goodbye.

Sybil smiled slightly in return, mustering her courage to speak aloud a phrase that she had heard multiple times on the radio but never practiced herself. After all, there wasn't many people that one could speak Irish to in everyday life.

"Dia duit"

Looking at her slightly surprised for a moment, Tom missed a beat. He evidently hadn't expected to hear the dying language of his home country from someone in England...and definitely not from someone who sounded so well...English.

"Dia is mhuire duit. Tom Branson is ainim dom. Cad is ainim duit?"

Beaming in return, Sybil was glad she hadn't made a fool of herself. Things would have proved rather awkward if he hadn't spoken Irish at all. "Sybil Crawley", she replied.

Tom smiled softly, still looking at her in amazement. "Sybil", he breathed out, with a slight chuckle."Cén fáth go bhfuil tú ábálta ag caint as Gaeilge?"

At this Sybil laughed outrightly, sure that very few would believe it. Her family certainly had thought that learning such a useless language was nought but a nonsense and rather eccentric hobby. "Anois...an nuacht", she said, imitating the tone of the presenters on Raidió na Gaeltachta.

Although chuckling, Tom continued to look at her, clearly impressed and taken aback but delighted.

Carson glanced frustratedly between the two younger individuals, annoyed that he didn't understand a word they were saying. They could be saying anything as far as he knew! And he damn well didn't trust either of them.

"For Goodness Sake, will you stop that Gaelic gibberish!"

Sybil and Tom glanced back at one another, a mutual smile passing between them.

* * *

**So you guys don't end up in the same boat at Mr Carson.**

**Dia Duit...Hello**

**Dia is mhuire duit. Tom Branson is ainim dom. Cad is ainim duit?...hello. my name is Tom. What's your name?**

**Cén fáth go bhfuil tú abalta ag caint as Gaeilge...how are you able to speak Irish.**

**Anois an nuacht...now for the news.**

**Raidió na Gaeltachta...the Irish radio.**

* * *

**Let me know if you liked the new chapter.**

**Wishing you all the best in these strange times,**

**Pearlydewdrop xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Our Beautiful Fantastic: Chapter 5**

...

_An Unremarkable Library_

_London_

...

Hundreds upon hundreds of books were all aligned back to back, waiting upon heavy oak shelves to be picked up and enjoyed.

Tatty second hand paper backs with curled up corners, hardbacks encompassed in glossy dustjackets, leather bound classics with gold letters peeling off, large encyclopaedias with their bindings cracked from use—all of them were lined up in neat colourful, alphabetically ordered, rows.

Each book held their own _unique_ world of wonders, elaborating on the short and lifelong questions that had lingered in the hearts and minds of mankind hundreds of years before the small London library had ever been assembled.

It was one of her favourite places in the world.

"Dia duit, Sybil", a unexpected voice greeted, his voice having dropped to a library appropriate tone that even Mrs Hughes herself would have approved of. "Conas atá tú inniú?"

Knowing immediately exactly who it was (for it could hardly have been anyone else), Sybil found herself smiling absentmindedly in return before she had even looked up.

Tom Branson's brogue was warm and lilting and she met his gaze from over the library ledgers.

He winked at her in greeting.

"Táim ar fheabhas, go raibh maith agat", Sybil replied, pleasantly surprised to see him again. "Agus tú féin?"

"I'm grand", he said, grinning sheepishly. "Managed to escape from his Lordship for a few hours."

Sybil smiled sympathetically. She didn't know Mr Carson very well, and she wasn't one to make hasty judgements on people...but he did seem like an individual who was rather difficult to please.

"I don't know how you put up with him everyday."

"Ahh he's not that bad, deep down anyway."

Suddenly a little girl, surely no more than five or six, shot across the room. Her vibrantly coloured wellie clad feet squeaked loudly upon the tiles, resounding through the silent library.

"Daddy! Daddy!", she exclaimed, chestnut braids darting out over her shoulders as she skidded to a halt. "The floor in here is like a big chessboard, all black and white squares! It's like Harry Potter!"

A few of the libraries older patrons glanced up, rather startled by the ruckus, but the only smiled upon discovering the four footed, bright eyed, source of noise.

Tom waved apologetically in their general direction, before turning to back to his daughter—finger held aloft to his lips. "Darlin', remember what we said about inside voices?"

"Sorry", she replied, pouting a little until her father's face softened...clearly the child had a certain someone very much wrapped around her little finger.

"We're umm...doing a bit of a Potter marathon", Tom offered after a moment, glancing back at Sybil who—after her initial surprise—looked rather amused and endeared by the whole exchange.

"Not to worry", Sybil replied warmly, smiling down at Tom's daughter. She had his eyes. "I think my first thoughts were rather along the same lines when I came here first, so I can hardly blame you."

Seeming pleased with such a response, the girl glanced up at her father, nodding mischievously. "See Daddy? She agrees too."

"Well then I'm clearly outnumbered", Tom replied, not without affection. He ruffled the child's hair, beckoning to someone else at the other end of the library in the children's section to join them.

Turning around to where the father and daughter were now looking. To Sybil's surprise, another girl—almost identical in appearance to the first—appeared several aisles down.

Twins!

The second child grinned shyly, swinging her clasped arms behind her back as she skipped over to join her father and sister.

"Hi", she greeted politely, glancing up over the counter (which was rather a good deal taller than her). "We're looking for books."

Sybil laughed lightly, "Well then, I think you've come to the right place."

Settling an affectionate hand on his daughters shoulders (both of whom looked just about ready to wiggle away and make a beeline for the children's section), Tom made to introduce his two girls properly.

"This is Siobhan, and this is Niamh. Girls, this is Sybil. She lives beside Mr Carson..."

* * *

"Thanks for all your help", Tom said genuinely, strolling with Sybil towards the library counter where Niamh and Siobhan were already attempting to charm Mrs Hughes into loaning them one extra book each. "I'm sure your recommendations will keep them busy for a while."

Sybil smiled. "Not at all, it was my pleasure. They're sweet girls."

"Aye, that they are...", Tom replied, a proud grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "...most of the time anyway."

Silence fell between them for a moment and, rather awkwardly, they alternated between trading smiling glances at each other and their own feet.

Feeling more than a little ridiculous, Sybil felt her cheeks flush slightly whenever Tom's eyes met hers. She had noticed how his ring finger was decidedly empty...and he had noticed her looking.

"And what about their Papa, does he read?"

Tom smirked, holding up his own selection for inspection; 'Chambers Music', a collection of poetry by James Joyce. "He does actually...although my choice may seem painfully characteristic since you already know I'm Irish."

Laughing slightly, Sybil approvingly took the book from him. "Not at all. It's an interesting choice. People generally either go for Dubliners or Portrait, and Ulysses if they're feeling particularly adventurous."

"Or particularly perserverant."

"That too..."

Sybil smiled, leafing through the familiar off white pages—most of them were love poems, much simpler than Joyce's characteristic post modernist bordering on absurdist works.

"It's funny that his novels are so complex, but his love poems are so simple."

Tom's warm fingers momentarily brushed over Sybil's as she returned the book to him, lingering just a second too long. He hummed thoughtfully, considering her words.

"Maybe Joyce meant for it to be that way", Tom replied after a moment, eyes meeting Sybil's in a manner that felt rather purposeful "Maybe he's saying that in a world where everything is always so complicated, falling in love should be simple."

Biting her lip, Sybil found herself rather warming to his argument. She felt her cheeks burn hotly, noticing out of the corner of her eye that he looked just as bashful.

"Perhaps."

The pair were silent once again, this time much more awkwardly than before. The air between them felt charged with energy somehow—a little more intense than either Tom or Sybil were quite comfortable with.

Stealing glances at one another, neither knew what to say next.

Clearly feeling as though he had already said too much, Tom ducked his head sheepishly and glanced back up across the room to his daughters and Mrs Hughes.

Going by their matching tower of books, it seemed as though the twins had won their crusade.

"We should probably get going."

Sybil nodded in agreement, unused to feeling so familiar with someone she scarcely knew. "Yeah, I should get back to work."

Moving to return to the library counter, Sybil felt Tom's fingers gently encircle her arm. She turned to face him, seeing from the shining glint in his sea blue eyes that a flicker of his earlier bravery and determination had returned.

"You wouldn't like to have breakfast with us some morning, with me and the girls?"

"Are you sure?", Sybil asked hesitantly—wanting to agreeing, but also not wanting to feel like she was imposing upon a family.

Tom smiled softly, meeting her gaze in silent reassurance. "I'll warn you, it can be quite a messy affair with two five year olds, but they seem to like you."

Sybil felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips, one that mirrored Tom's. "I'd love to."

* * *

**A/N: I'm so sorry to all the chelsie shippers that are following this story, there will be more for you guys in the next chapter, I promise :)**

**Nonetheless, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Let me know your thoughts, I would absolutely love to hear from you!**

**Pearlydewdrop xx**

**Cúpla Fócail as Gaeilge...(a few words in Irish)**

_ **Dia Duit..Hello** _

_ **Conas atá tú inniú?...how are you today?** _

_ **Táim ar fheabhas, go raibh maith agat. Agus tú féin?...I'm good, thanks. And you?** _


	7. Chapter 7

**Our Beautiful Fantastic: Chapter 6**

_..._

_An Unremarkable Cottage_

_London_

_..._

While she had always been partial to order, there was something quite lovely about their chaos.

Rather happily, Sybil could easily spend her whole morning seated by her typewriter, nursing a steaming cup of Yorkshire tea over her latest written creation.

_Warm...peaceful...and comfortable too._

Her stationary would be laid out before her, all in perfect rows with her toast cut in squares so precise a geometry professor would be envious. Everything would be exactly where it was needed and not a single crumb would ever be seen out of place.

This morning, however, was a different kind of happy...a mad, chaotic, unexpected kind of happy.

The three Bransons had, quite literally, burst into her kitchen.

Siobhan and Niamh barrelled in the door, scurrying out of the rain with muddy zebra striped wellingtons and cheeky lopsided grins. Siobhan's rambunctiousness burst forth tenfold in comparison to their interaction the week before while Niamh's more reserved nature was clearly long forgotten as she toppled in after her sister.

Tom only smiled apologetically at the twins' antics. His eyes lit up, quiet9ly hopeful that a slightly taken aback Sybil would invite him inside.

"I'm sorry. Ahh, is now not a good time?", he asked, offering up a bag of groceries.

Sybil eyed him quizzically, her lips pursed in a conflicted mixture of confusion and amusement. She was completely unsure whether she found the whole situation entirely charming or wildly eccentric...a conundrum that she was more accustomed to inspiring in other people than experiencing herself.

"When you invited me to breakfast, I can't say that I expected you to show up unannounced at my house."

Tom shrugged sheepishly, fumbling with his umbrella to avoid getting even wetter. Sybil felt her blush darkening as she observed his momentary fall from charisma to awkwardness.

"Where would the good be in going anywhere else?", he asked, scratching the back of his neck. "I am a chief...best pancakes around, right girls?"

Niamh nodded with a bright smile. Siobhan eyed her father seriously, as though having given the matter serious consideration (or at least as serious as consideration gets for a five year old!).

"Only when they're chocolate chip pancakes!"

"Well there you go, the answers of my two top notch food critics."

Finding herself fighting a smile in return, Sybil stepped aside. Rather unexpectedly, she felt a gush of warmth surge through her at Tom's triumphant grin.

"Alright then. Chocolate pancakes, you say?", she bantered softly.

"If that's what the lady wishes", Tom replied with a good natured smirk, earning him an eye roll from Sybil and a round of giggles from Siobhan and Niamh.

"What time do you have to be back with Mr Carson?", Sybil asked, not wanting to cause needless trouble with Tom's employer. Goodness knows, they'd already had enough of that recently.

"Not for another hour and a half."

"Okay then."

Tom beamed, clapping his hands together. "Ar fheabhas!"

The next hour went by in a flurry of giggles, floury noses and two pairs of little buttery fingers that fought over bowels of raw pancake batter.

Sybil watched the trio from her slightly wobbly table, having been jokingly banished by Tom as soon as he had discovered that her cupboards were bursting with pot noodles, tinned peaches and various pickled vegetables.

Despite a series of admittedly frustrating attempts in the kitchen of Downton before she'd gone off to university, Sybil could barely cook anything that didn't belong to the 'instant-just add water' or microwavable variety. Mrs Patmore, her parents' cook and longtime friend of Mrs Hughes, had even gone as far to say a teenaged Sybil would have burned water. Unfortunately, even though almost a deacade had gone by...not much had changed in that regard.

"Food prison", Tom teased gently, his eyes round as saucers in genuine amazement as they took in the sight of (what looked to him like) the entirety of the tinned food aisle at Sainsbury's.

The twins, on the other hand, seemed only all too happy to facilitate Sybil's exile from her own kitchen.

Niamh duly distracted her with pleas for stories (having learned that Sybil was an aspiring writer of children's fiction) while Siobhan stood over the frying pan and argued vehemently with Tom over how much syrup was too much syrup.

"Daddy more!"

"Not a chance. There's no way that you're goin' to school with a belly full of chocolate. You'll be as sick as a dog, darlin'. What would your teacher say? Mr Moseley would have my head for it."

"No he won't!"

Niamh's head bobbed between her father and Siobhan, as though watching a game of table tennis.

Sybil only smiled, torn between feeling like a slightly out of place intruder on a family moment and letting herself be amused and endeared by the whole interaction.

"They're like this all the time", Niamh confessed with a conspiratorial side eye that illicted a laugh from Sybil.

After all, while this whole situation was very far from her normal...it was admittedly rather nice.

* * *

_ **A/N: Next up we'll have Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes and perhaps some information about Tom's past. Let me know if you liked this chapter, I know it was short but I want to get back into this story if you guys are still interested.** _

_ **Hope you are all doing well :)** _

_ **Pearlydewdrop xx** _


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